


So Very Slow

by tansypool



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Clubbing, F/F, Sensorites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-09-22 21:58:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17067896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tansypool/pseuds/tansypool
Summary: The TARDIS has a questionable ability with timing, and Yaz can't quite cope.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one of those ideas that refused to let me go until it was mostly done.
> 
> Thank you Kate (as always) and Bianca for making sure it's actually readable, given most of it was written after midnight.

“I’ll drop you off, come back in a week, let you do some of your normal human things, laundry and working and visiting your grandparents, and I’ll be back before you know it.” The Doctor smiles, that beautiful, uninhibited smile, a smile that Yaz would do anything to see.

Yaz can’t lie to herself, she does want to go home, just for a little while. She never thought she’d miss her family as much as she does – even Sonia, and her prattling and loud music. She misses her job, too, even if it was more parking disputes than excitement. But after some of the recent excitement, something relatively normal for a little while might be healthy. She can survive a week without the Doctor.

“Ooh, I can get you back there about forty-five minutes after we left, that should be fine, shouldn’t it?”

“Sounds perfect, Doc,” Graham says, looking eager. “Don’t have to worry about the plants.”

Yaz glances down, realises that she was definitely not wearing this shirt when she left home forty-five minutes – or three weeks – ago. “Mind if I just run to my room for a few?”

\---

The outfit she wore last time she was in Sheffield is neatly folded, waiting for her to walk into the flat as though it hadn’t been weeks since she left - though, as far as her family are concerned, it won’t have been. An hour, barely, not even long enough to have gone out for lunch. She leaves her book on the little bedside table that had appeared out of nowhere – she’ll be back for it soon enough, and she doesn’t want to explain to her parents why she has a book that was published in 2549. She changes quickly, folds her clothes that she’d put on barely a few hours earlier – they’ll be fine to wear again.

She gets back to the console room last, with Graham and Ryan already back. Neither of them have changed their clothes – but they’re going home to a flat where there’s nobody to ask questions. She doesn’t envy them that.

“Righto, forty-five minutes after we left, same place, nobody will even know you’ve gone.” The groaning and wheezing of the TARDIS fills the room, but it lands steadily, and the Doctor checks a few screens, double checks a sticky note attached to one of them. “Eighth of October, just past four in the afternoon, 2018, that sound about right?”

“We’ll figure it out if it’s not,” Ryan says, chuckling a little. “We’ll see you in a week!”

“See you ‘round.” Graham gives a little wave as he wanders towards the doors, Ryan following behind him.

Yaz takes a moment, smiles at the Doctor, hoping to see her smile in return. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“Of course.” Yaz sees that smile, and it warms her from deep within, but she only sees it for a moment, as the Doctor wraps her in a hug before she has a chance to do it first. She lets the hug linger, revels in the warmth.

And when she steps outside the TARDIS, and hears it disappear behind her, she doesn’t let herself think about how leaving the Doctor for a week makes her heart hurt more than she’d like to admit.

\---

It has not been a week. She wishes it had only been a week, or two, little enough time that it felt like a mistake, like a little slip of the buttons. They’d landed in so many sticky situations because of the inconsistent precision, and she tells herself that this is one of those times, that the Doctor will be back soon, it’s only been three weeks, a month. But she doesn’t come.

No. It’s been a year. Not that she’s been counting. Not that she’s been staring down the calendar since that first week ended, hoping that the worst hasn’t happened.

A year, to the exact day, and she isn’t even working, and can’t take her mind off of the Doctor, wondering where she is,  _ when _ she is, if she’s okay. Wondering if she found a new set of friends, and forgot about those she had left. Wondering if she’ll ever be back.

The others have moved on, far more easily than she did. A week went by, and then a few, and they let themselves move on. Ryan finished his NVQ, found work in a garage – he loves it, loves how easily he’s taken to it, and how much his boss appreciates his recently-developed calmness under duress. Graham, with fidgety hands and an empty flat, started working in a tiny cafe, a few hours a week. Turns out, he makes a lovely cake, which he’s very proud of, as it’s a new discovery for him, too.

Meanwhile, Yaz is at least no longer a probationary officer, but her work hardly feels exciting compared to what she’s seen. She’s still facing down parking disputes, but they’re fewer and farther between. Now, she’s also dealing with drunken brawls and car accidents. For a few weeks, right as her probationary period ended, she thought she was going somewhere, but her new normal feels mere inches away from her old.

The days off are worse. Particularly this one. It’s been a year, exactly, almost to the hour since she last saw the Doctor.

\---

She wants to forget, for a night.

Sonia, of course, knows where to go, taking no meaning from Yaz just wanting to go out and dance, and not have men hit on her. “I mean, it’s a bit weird in there, but they play good music and nobody really pushes it. Girls’ll actually take no for an answer.”

She doesn’t need to know that that’s almost what Yaz is looking for. Nothing needs to happen, but it’ll be fine if it does – if the opportunity is there, so be it.

Her wardrobe is hardly designed for clubbing, but needs must, and she doesn’t think she’ll look too out of place. Jeans and a grey tartan shirt, nice enough, and she can slip into the background, just a bit. She’s recently bought a new leather jacket, that she’s not had a chance to wear – it’s a very simple, classic design, but it’s waterproof with zipped pockets, and a small pocket on the inside lining, so she doesn’t have to worry about a bag, at least.

Their parents have long since given up on Sonia’s partying habits, but Yaz has never been one for it, and they’re a little baffled when they see her in heeled boots and lipstick at ten at night.

“I’ve got my keys, just meeting up with a few of the girls from school. I’ll text if we wind up staying at Ash’s.” Yaz announces her completely made-up plans as she’s halfway out the door, to avoid any questions.

Her mother looks a little suspicious, but doesn’t say anything out of the ordinary. “Don’t do anything Sonia would do.”

Yaz just laughs and quickly says, “See ya!”

She can hear Sonia’s protestations of “What was that for?” from behind the closed door, as she heads towards the city centre, alone.

\---

It’s too loud, and too dark, but the floor isn’t too sticky, and she doesn’t feel too out of place. There’s a lingering smell of damp by the doors, but it’s been pouring rain for most of the evening, so she’s hardly surprised. The drinks are cheap – Sonia said they always were on Tuesdays – and her card is contactless, so moderation be damned.

And all of a sudden, there’s a woman, who looks almost like the Doctor, except she doesn’t. They’d have the same hair, if the woman’s wasn’t a little longer, and a little more unkempt. She’s wearing too much eye makeup, and her outfit is the wrong sort of unusual, but Yaz can’t stop looking at her anyway.

The woman notices her, and smirks, but she doesn’t look away. Yaz thinks nothing of it, until she turns around on the dance floor a moment later to find the woman beside her, smiling widely – but in a way she’d never expect from that face – with her tongue just visible between her teeth.

Through a haze of vodka lemonades, Yaz doesn’t quite notice how she winds up in an alleyway outside the club. She vaguely notices that it isn’t raining. And then, she has her arms around the woman’s neck, and her tongue down the woman’s throat.

The woman tastes like cigarette smoke and Yaz is acutely aware of her tongue piercing, and suddenly she can shake the Doctor’s image from her mind, pushed against the freezing bricks. Her mind is foggy, and blissfully empty of anything outside of the woman and the moment, and she’s happy for it to stay that way.

\---

There’s a yell of a name in the far-off distance, and the woman breaks away to stare down the alley. Yaz belatedly realises that it’s the woman’s name, not that she can quite hear it. She doesn’t even know how long they’ve been outside.

She’s breathless as she follows the woman’s gaze, glances down the alleyway to a group of figures she can’t make the details out of, can barely even count. The woman still has a hand on Yaz’s hip, on bare skin above the waistband of her jeans, but she pulls it away, leaving the skin cold.

And then the woman winks at her, pulls an eyeliner pencil from her purse, and shakily scrawls a number on Yaz’s hand. She winks again, kisses her quickly, and whispers in her ear, “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Her writing is too blurry, and the numbers almost indistinguishable, and Yaz still doesn’t know her name. Just the lingering taste of smoke and the intermingled alcohol and adrenaline in her veins. She doesn’t even know if she’d ever work up the courage to call her, if she could read the number at all.

She leans back into the wall, watching the woman leave with her friends, and lets the freezing night air fill her lungs, tries to let something resembling sense come back to her mind. The urge to follow the woman – to wherever she’s going, with her friends, or alone, back inside the now-closed club, or to her bed – fades, though the fuzz in her mind does not.

It’s after four, and her phone battery is getting low in the cool air. She couldn’t go back inside if she wanted to – that’s her night done, she thinks. She’s only a mile or so from home, so she could walk it, but she’d rather get a cab.

If she can find one. They usually tend to hover around the clubs, but not tonight, it seems, and none of them are answering their phones. Walking home it is, sticking to the brightly lit streets, and hoping she sees a cab soon.

\---

She thinks she’s been walking for less than ten minutes, but when she looks at her phone, it’s been close to thirty, and she’s not sure where she is any more. Still on main roads, still no cabs, and when she rings again, her phone chooses that moment to go flat. She swears she hears something, like the far too familiar sound of machinery screaming, as it does.

It’s all she can do to not fling it against the ground, all she can do to not scream or cry in frustration. Light flashes across the sky, and there’s a clap of thunder - she may as well find a bus stop and wait there until the buses start or the oncoming storm stops, whichever comes first.

Instead, she turns around, and finds herself staring at an old phone box, that she swears wasn’t there a minute ago. It’s not the one on Surrey Street, she’s nowhere near there. And besides, this one’s blue.

But it couldn’t be. She’s not coming back. That’s what she was trying to forget tonight.

And then the door swings in, even though it says to  _ pull _ , and the Doctor is standing there, but she can’t be. She left, she’s gone, but she’s there, eyes bright, hair shining against the light from inside, with that smile that Yaz has been trying to forget, wide across her face.

“Hiya, Yaz!” she says as though it’s only been a few hours.

And she can’t hold back. “It can’t be, it can’t be you, you left, you left us a  _ year _ ago, you can’t just come back whenever you like and pretend nothing has happened, you  _ left _ me here--” and then Yaz can’t quite make the words come out, just a racking sob, and she can feel tears burning in her eyes.

And the Doctor steps forward, reaches out, the smile gone from her face. But Yaz steps away – it’s been a year, and she’s not even sure she isn’t dreaming this, doesn’t want to wake up from it.

She tries to push her away, but can’t bring herself to, can’t do anything more than let her hands press against the Doctor’s shoulders as she’s pulled into a hug. She can feel the Doctor’s hand rubbing circles against her back, and her other hand between her shoulder blades, holding her close.

And then, softly into her ear, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” and Yaz can hear the catch in the Doctor’s voice, can hear how heartbroken she is, and that just makes her sob even more.

\---

Yaz can’t quite fathom how the TARDIS can be off by an entire year, and then land barely a few hours after departing, but she has never been able to mentally connect the dots on that, let alone now. The first light of dawn is already reaching across the sky, the clouds glowing ever so slightly in contrast to the night Yaz had seen barely five minutes earlier.

They’re right outside Park Hill, but Yaz isn’t sure she can walk that far, the lingering alcohol making her feel worse as it dissipates. The Doctor is still by her side – she reaches for her hand, and instead feels an arm, stable and warm, against her waist. And she doesn’t let go, letting Yaz lean into her as they walk. She doesn’t even ask for the keys to the flat, instead opening the lock with her sonic.

And her mother is awake, of course she is, she’s always up early for work. Yaz braces herself for a lecture, but as she braces herself, she feels her entire body relax at the realisation of being home. Her head droops a little against the Doctor’s shoulder, and she feels the Doctor stiffen, as though she was expecting her to pass out.

She doesn’t, but she feels herself tune out, against her will. She knows the Doctor is talking, trying to justify--  _ something _ . And her mother is angry, but whether that’s at the Doctor, or at Yaz, or even at the kettle taking too long to boil, she’s not sure. She just clings to the Doctor, lets her guide her over to the couch.

She sits rather forcefully, feels the Doctor sit next to her before she looks up, and sees her face in proper light for the first time in too long. She’s missed that face, missed every little detail, the smattering of freckles, the furrow of her brow.

“Come on – jacket,” the Doctor murmurs, and Yaz feels herself obediently unzipping it, trying to tug it off; the Doctor guides it the last little way, and drapes it over the back of the couch. She doesn’t prompt her to kick off her shoes – Yaz does it automatically, before pulling her feet up next to her on the couch.

And then the Doctor scoots to the end of the couch, and taps her thigh lightly, watching Yaz, as though she’s waiting. Yaz takes it as a cue to lie down, her head resting on the Doctor’s thigh, and she feels fingers in her hair, lets her eyes drift shut, for a peaceful moment.

All too soon, she feels a finger under her chin, and opens her eyes again, everything a little blurry. Squinting against the light, she sees her mother, kneeling close.

“We’ll talk about this later.” She looks a little angry, but it’s mostly concern, and she follows it with a gentle thumb over Yaz’s cheek. And then she stands up, and speaks to the Doctor, sterner this time. “We are  _ definitely _ talking later.”

Yaz is just glad that Sonia is the one making a habit of messy nights out, and not her – at least she isn’t a repeat offender. She’s worried for the Doctor, being on the receiving end of one of her mother’s talks.

The TV is on, the news banner looping at the bottom. All of a sudden, it’s playing old footage, of the invasion of ghosts that happened when she was a kid. She’d thought it must have been a dream for years, and never thought to ask, until she read about it on Wikipedia one day.

She feels the Doctor’s hand stop still, frozen in her hair. At the word  _ inquest _ echoing from the TV – at least, Yaz thinks she heard  _ inquest _ – she feels the Doctor’s hand move again, resume its soft stroking of her hair. At that, she lets her eyes drift shut, and she’s vaguely aware of a blanket being laid over her, and then the door closing as her mother leaves for the day.

She’s really not sure she wants to wake up later – she knows she’ll feel vile. But drifting off, with the Doctor still playing with her hair, she thinks that it won’t be so bad. Not with the Doctor there when she wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anybody was wondering about the description of the unnamed woman at the club - she was based off a certain character in [Smoke (2012)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FNLALZ-uG0).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't quite stop myself. Thank you to everybody who said they were interested in a continuation, because you definitely set the wheels spinning in my head for a particular scene I couldn't find a place for in the first chapter.
> 
> Thank you Bee for your proofreading and prodding! (And for putting up with my pestering.)

“I’ll drop you off, come back in a week, let you do some of your normal human things, laundry and working and visiting your grandparents, and I’ll be back before you know it.” The Doctor grins – she knows her team miss their own lives sometimes, even if they aren’t always keen on spending too much time there lately. For every fun, interesting, not-quite-life-threatening trip they’ve had, there’s been another that has carried more risk, and humans always seem to find that exhausting.

That oh-so-human lack of energy had always seemed strange, but doubly so now – she swears that she’s never felt this energetic, or at least, she hasn’t for centuries.

The TARDIS is cooperating today. The Doctor had had the forethought to write down the day they’d left on, attached it to a monitor on a sticky note, and the TARDIS is all too happy to calibrate for then, not too long after they left, and barely taking a moment. “Ooh, I can get you back there about forty-five minutes after we left, that should be fine, shouldn’t it?”

They all look happy with the prospect – Ryan nods a little, and Graham says, “Sounds perfect, Doc. Don’t have to worry about the plants.”

She didn’t know he had plants. She’d never trust herself to keep any – can never be too sure when one’ll turn sentient, and that’s if she doesn’t accidentally forget to water it for fifteen years first.

Yaz is staring down at her shirt, her brow furrowing a little. “Mind if I just run to my room for a few?”

“Of course, you’ve got all the time in the world.” At the Doctor’s words, the rest of her team scatters into the hallways.

\---

Ryan and Graham are back in moments, already deep in their planning for the return home. The Doctor has barely had time to exhaust the current biscuit supply in the time they’ve been gone.

Graham is slowly counting on his fingers, as though going through a list in his mind. “We could go visit Maude, yeah? She’s always good for a laugh.”

Ryan rolls his eyes at that, but there’s a touch of a smile to his face. “And a stupid amount of cake.”

“She’ll think we’re barmy, though, if we go on about all of this.” Graham catches the Doctor’s eye – going by the look he gives her, he’s been trying for longer than he’d have liked. “How do family friends usually take the news?”

Ryan doesn’t let her answer, instead insisting, “We don’t need to know, because we won’t be telling her about this, because she’ll have seen us two days ago.”

There’s an echo of footsteps as Yaz joins them, in a fresh change of clothes and with a slight spring to her step. She doesn’t stand with Ryan and Graham, though, instead leaning against the console, watching the Doctor fiddle idly with the sticky note still attached to a screen.

Despite being sure of the moment she’s aiming for, she still wants to confirm aloud – she’s had that go wrong before, and it’s not an experience she wants to repeat. “Righto, forty-five minutes after we left, same place, nobody will even know you’ve gone.”

Everything is set, and calibrated, and the TARDIS moves smoothly, her engines doing exactly as asked. Dates spring onto displays readily – a feature that has never worked very consistently, but seems to be willing to work today. “Eighth of October, just past four in the afternoon, 2018, that sound about right?” It matches the sticky note, and it matches the dates saved in some database she’ll never be able to find again no matter how hard she looks.

“We’ll figure it out if it’s not. We’ll see you in a week!” Ryan chuckles, as though hoping for a challenge that he’d probably regret.

He and Graham head almost immediately towards the doors, Graham throwing a “See you ‘round!” and a wave over his shoulder as they do. The allure of Maude’s cakes seems to be too much to resist for any longer.

Could be fun to visit her, after the week is over, but the Doctor doubts that her presence would be easily explained.

Yaz doesn’t move with nearly the same enthusiasm. She runs her fingers along the edge of the console, as though letting the metal seep into her memory, before looking up, a smile lighting up her whole face. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

The Doctor can’t help but mirror the expression. “Of course,” she says, barely letting it leave her lips before she pulls Yaz into a hug.

She’s not been doing much hugging in this body, but she’s really enjoying it when she does. Even if she can’t ignore that she’s still not used to being this short.

Yaz breaks the hug, even though the Doctor would have happily let it linger longer. For a couple of seconds, she can still smell Yaz’s conditioner – something light, not overly floral, almost a little sweet.

Noticing _that_ is new.

But she doesn’t want to keep her – she’s been complaining about her family less lately, which must mean she misses them. They won’t have had a chance to miss her, not yet.

Best not to linger. The Doctor sweeps the TARDIS back into the time vortex, tries not to think about missing them.

Tries not to focus on how much she already misses that last hug in particular. Or the person who gave it.

That’s new, too.

\---

“I’ll just go for a week too. Should feel the same, get an idea of what they’re all off doing. Time alone. Should be good. Not had much of that for a while.” The Doctor pauses, stares at the small, spinning glass police box on the console. She’s still not sure if it’s something to do with the long-broken chameleon circuit, or just the TARDIS showing off. “I mean, it’s not gone well when I’ve been alone the last few times, but we’ve usually been pretty busy trying not to get killed, so I feel like that’s warranted.”

Not that there’s anybody on board right now to defend herself to. Or talk to, at all, despite her best efforts, and she finds herself falling into an unexpected silence, broken by nothing but the gentle hum of engines.

The TARDIS could use some fuel, and she’s sure that if they wander, one of them will find a suitable rift soon enough – especially when they’re both looking for it. Leaking rifts stand out when the entirety of space and time is visible.

As soon as the thought runs through her mind, she hears the engines grinding away, as though a rift has already been spotted.

The TARDIS lands without any input, and the Doctor steps out of the ship, and finds herself surrounded by Sensorite soldiers, with the TARDIS engulfed in a sickly green glow.

The green isn’t ideal, and neither are the dozen phasers she’s staring down the barrels of. There’s some sort of saying about mice that sounded far better in her old accent that begins to run through her mind, but she’s unconscious before the thought finishes.

\---

New discovery for the trip: Sensorite phasers pack a punch that will send any and all schemes significantly awry. She’s not sure how long she was out for, before waking up in a cell with everything attached to her nervous system throbbing.

At least her captors have the good grace to turn up not long after she woke up – the perks of being imprisoned by a telepathic race. Two guards, in identical uniforms, with identical weapons, and identical footsteps, so close together that the individual steps are nearly indistinguishable. Neither of them even has a name tag.

They don’t ask, but she tries to explain herself anyway. “Just came by to refuel, it’s not an attack, I’m the only one on my ship. She seemed to think your temporal rift was a good place to land, even if you didn’t.”

With the lingering painful everything and the fog of planet-wide telepathic frequencies floating through her brain, she’s just glad they don’t seem keen to continue shooting at her, despite the weapons in their hands. Then again, she is in prison – and handcuffed, which she only notices when she starts to fidget under their silent gaze.

“I can be on my way whenever you want, we’ll find a rift somewhere else.”

More silence, but the two guards are joined by a third in a slightly different uniform, who unlocks her cell. She scrambles to her feet, feels a rather uncomfortable jolt run the length of her spine.

There’s still not a word from the guards as they lead her out of the cells, through a maze of corridors that they seem to navigate entirely by telepathy. They’re endless, dozens leading off to the sides, and all blurring into one, endlessly grey. She really wishes she knew where they were going, as all she can glean is that she’s not staying in her cell.

An incredibly painful twenty minutes later, eighteen of which were spent in those corridors, and they uncuff her, a foot away from the TARDIS doors. The green glow has faded, at least, and she stares at the doors, knowing that if she turns around, it’ll only end badly. For her.

She’s not quite sure whether they’re speaking or sending it directly to her mind, but she knows that this is the only verbal communication she’s getting out of them before she is forced to depart. “Time Lord technology has no place in the Sense Sphere anymore.”

All things considered, things could have gone far worse. She scrambles for her key and stumbles inside before they can actually shoot her. Again.

The console room is glowing faintly green, but the ship moves back into the time vortex with barely a shudder, and the green dissipates with the movement.

_She’ll be fine._

And then, they’re gone from the Sense Sphere, which they apparently won’t be visiting again. Thankfully, there are no phasers when floating outside of time, and the Doctor takes the opportunity to find the medical room, repair the inevitable nerve damage, and lie down until everything stops aching.

\---

The pain faded a little more slowly than she’d hoped for, but there doesn’t appear to be any lasting damage. Her head isn’t fuzzy any more – though that’s as much being away from the telepathic fields as anything else – and when she sits up, nothing spins, and nothing stings.

As good a time as any to get moving.

The passageways feel eerily empty – the loneliness on board is unfamiliar, and palpable. The green glow has completely faded, and the soft, warm glowing has returned, but it does nothing to ease the silence.

The console room is a little darker than normal, but with no humans on board, it doesn’t really matter. A few system checks, and everything seems to be fine.

She’s really not enjoying the silence. She can land back in Sheffield, it’ll still have been a week for everybody else, they don’t need to know her original plans. And she’s missing them. It’s not the first time she’s found herself missing her accidental kidnappees-turned-team, and she’s just glad she can still go back to them.

Systems set, back to Sheffield. The engines groan and wheeze, and then the TARDIS stops, her displays spasming. They seem to have landed twelve hours after they left, not that much is being given away, and she just hopes her gut instinct is right.

The Doctor presses a few buttons, and the TARDIS does what she seems to like doing lately, when her decisions are final – absolutely nothing, besides spitting out a biscuit that the Doctor really doesn't fancy. She’s not going anywhere, even if she won’t say where they are.

The displays are frozen, showing their location as being probably England. There's really nothing left to do but wander outside – and spend a week in what is hopefully Sheffield, moving in the right direction.

The scent of rain rushes in as soon as the door opens a crack, but that’s not what catches her attention in the darkness. She’s landed directly behind somebody she recognises, and her hearts skip a little in her chest.

Probably just a side effect from the phasers.

“Hiya, Yaz!” It’s only been a couple of days for the Doctor, most of which were spent unconscious, but she’s still very happy to see her nonetheless.

She’s not expecting the look on Yaz’s face. Surprise, sure – her arrival wasn’t quite when it was planned.

But Yaz’s eyes are glassy and they aren’t quite focused, and she looks _horrified_. She backs away half a step, shaking her head, her lips parted a few seconds before the words tumble out, completely uninhibited.

“It can’t be, it can’t be you, you left, you left us a _year_ ago, you can’t just come back whenever you like and pretend nothing has happened, you _left_ me here…” She trails off, and nothing but a choking sob comes out.

And then the Doctor notices it, clear as anything. Yaz’s hair is far longer than it would have grown in a week, and she has a couple more piercings in her ear. She’s done her make-up differently – she’s wearing more, in darker colours, and it’s a little smudged, though whether it’s intentional or not, the Doctor isn’t quite sure.

She steps forward, trying to ignore the guilt coiling in her stomach, tries to pull Yaz close, even when she pushes away for a split second. But she falls easily into the hug, her chin resting against the Doctor’s shoulder, her chest still shaking.

There’s nothing more that the Doctor can do, but hold her, and whisper into her ear, trying not to betray the clenching in her hearts, the feeling that she’s completely failed Yaz. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

\---

After the last timing mishap, the Doctor isn’t quite sure she trusts the TARDIS to land where she needs her to, but with the way Yaz is wobbling on her feet, she’s not really sure of another option to get her home.

Yaz leans against a crystal column, pressing her forehead against it, wincing against the light, but not moving away. In that moment, the Doctor regrets the lack of console room seating, but there’s nothing that can be done about it now.

She desperately checks everything that she can, as quickly as she can, hoping that the TARDIS’ temper tantrum is over. She’s never good with short trips at the best of times – recovering from what was seemingly a very questionable rift in time is never the best of times. But her displays are working again, the lights back to normal.

And she manages the leap two hours ahead, in a side street by Park Hill, the dawn barely breaking. It’s definitely the same day. The Doctor makes as certain of that as she can.

Yaz is still leaning against the column, eyes a little glassy, still looking a little stunned to be in the TARDIS again – but she doesn’t seem to have noticed the movement. She doesn’t protest when the Doctor gently pulls her away from the column, though she doesn’t stand up straight, either.

They walk slowly together towards the doors, and the Doctor feels her lean a little closer as they step outside. She wraps an arm around her waist, holding her steady; they make their way towards the lifts to her flat as smoothly as they can.

She trusts the TARDIS, she really does, but the Doctor can’t ignore the fear that something has gone wrong, and that Yaz will have been away from home for far longer than a few hours. At least the displays were working, this time.

If Yaz is thinking the same thing, she isn’t saying it. Instead, she’s leaning into the Doctor’s side, in an effort to hold herself upright.

They make it to the flat slowly but steadily, and the Doctor reaches for her sonic with the arm not currently around Yaz’s waist. The door clicks open after barely a buzz – any other time, and she'd have wanted to try to open it with a paperclip, just to see if she still could. But not now, not with Yaz leaning into her side, still a little wobbly.

She hears Najia before she sees her, any brief hopes of stealth dashed with her voice piercing through the silence of dawn. “And what time do you call this? If you're going to stay at Ash's, then stay there, don't just stumble home and make a racket—”

And then Najia walks in, stares at them, in front of the still-open door. Vaguely aware of the cool air floating in, the Doctor tries to kick it shut, and then tries to reach for it, neither movement working particularly smoothly. She’s just relieved that they’ve seemingly landed on the right day.

Najia takes that opportunity to come close enough that the Doctor can almost feel the ice from her gaze. It's been a while since she's been stared down by somebody's mother like this. She hasn't missed it.

As soon as she closes the door – quietly, despite the look in her eye being the sort to be accompanied by slamming – Najia's voice drops to a whisper, as icy as her expression. “How _dare_ you come back here, after all this time, and act like nothing is wrong.”

The Doctor can feel her mouth hanging open, awaiting a protestation that she can't quite make come out. “I— we…” She pauses, tries to collect her thoughts under Najia’s unbroken glare. “It wasn't supposed to happen like this.”

“I should hope not.”

Yaz is starting to wobble again, and despite the lecture she’d love to avoid, the Doctor leads them both over to the couch, and tries to lower Yaz carefully. Her efforts are in vain, and Yaz flops backwards, somehow landing in a seated position, where the Doctor quickly joins her.

Najia has disappeared into the kitchen again, and the Doctor makes the most of the brief moment of peace.

Yaz is still sitting exactly where she landed, looking a little uncomfortable, staring at the Doctor. She only seems to come out of her daze when the Doctor gently places a hand on her shoulder, and murmurs, “Come on – jacket.” Yaz unzips it obediently, eases it off until she gets the sleeve caught on her shirt cuff; the Doctor helps ease it off the last little way, and places it on the back of the couch. As she does, Yaz kicks off her shoes and curls up on the couch, her eyes drooping.

She doesn’t protest when the Doctor taps her own thigh lightly, instead laying down at the invitation, her head in the Doctor’s lap. Before she realises what she’s doing, the Doctor finds herself running her fingers through Yaz’s hair, feeling her fingers catch on knots. She finds herself staring at the television, watching two red-faced men on a split screen snap at each other about nothing at all.

Yaz’s breathing has already slowed down enough to be asleep by the time Najia comes back, holding a bottle of water that she places next to the couch. She straightens up, her arms crossed, her expression still as cold as the moment she saw them.

Her voice is quiet enough that the Doctor almost has to strain to hear. “Why did you turn up now, of all times? You've had a year to do it, you can't tell me you didn't think of coming back before today?”

She doesn’t know how much Najia actually knows. There’s not much she can say without knowing that. Not that Najia gives her a chance to.

“I don’t even want to know why you chose now to come back. Why not yesterday, or tomorrow, or at some sort of civilised hour? Why did you even come back at all?” She’s glaring directly at the Doctor, powerfully enough that she can’t bring herself to make even a split second of eye contact.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, it wasn’t supposed to be this long.” She can’t look up, instead staring at Yaz, still running her fingers through her hair. Can’t say anything that’ll make this all better.

Najia doesn’t seem to know what to make of the Doctor’s apparent inability to keep track of time, but she doesn’t linger on it – she glances at the clock, and seems to ready herself to leave, squaring her shoulders, but returning her glare back to the Doctor. She stands in silence, seemingly waiting for the Doctor to meet her eye, and the Doctor can feel the chill in her voice when she finally speaks again.

“I've been watching my daughter deal with you disappearing for a year – not that she'll admit that anything's wrong, mind you, but I know when something's wrong with her. She stopped mentioning you very quickly. But if this is how you behave, she was better off with you gone.”

And then she turns and leaves the room, her footsteps echoing briefly, before being joined by the jangling of keys.

She’s back within a minute, wearing a jacket and carrying a blanket. She doesn’t say a word to the Doctor as she kneels, face level with Yaz’s, gently stroking at her cheek, as she murmurs, “We’ll talk about this later.” Yaz snorts a little, a sharp puff of air, but she seems to be somewhat awake, or at least awake enough to respond.

Najia stands up again, and any warmth that was briefly present is gone, as she stares at the Doctor and says, “We are _definitely_ talking about this later.” With that, she drapes a blanket over Yaz, and quietly leaves.

The news is still playing softly in the background, but has moved on, and the Doctor feels herself freeze at the footage – of Cybermen in London, taken from security cameras. She wasn’t even sure that the whole invasion hadn’t been wiped from existence at some point. But the newsreaders are far too calm, their voices almost monotonous.

_The inquest into the attacks at Canary Wharf in 2006 has today reached a conclusion…_

She tries to find the remote control, but can’t even see it – her sonic will probably do the job just fine. As she reaches for it, she feels Yaz shift in her lap, and sees her eyes flutter open. She blinks a few times, staring at the ceiling, and it's only then that she seems to notice that the Doctor is still there – she frowns a little, but the Doctor isn't quite sure as to whether it's at her presence, or just at the light.

She shifts slightly, before sitting up, far more sharply than the Doctor would have expected. And then she leans forward, her face buried in her hands, and pauses there, hunched over.

The Doctor reaches forward, hesitantly places a hand between Yaz’s shoulder blades, where she can at least try to offer something resembling comfort. Yaz doesn’t react, though, staying stock-still for a moment before spinning herself enough to swing her legs off the couch.

The Doctor drops her hand, and shuffles closer, her arm hesitantly around Yaz’s waist. Still something to help Yaz, nothing to do with herself, not some sort of unconscious need to be closer.

“I should let you rest a bit. Go say hi to Graham and Ryan, see how they’re doing…” She lets her voice trail off, completely unsure of where to go from there. She’s not quite sure she can face the guilt again today, but she needs to.

But Yaz looks at her, wide-eyed. “Please don’t leave me again.” There’s a plea in her tone, and it’s clear in her eyes that she’s terrified of letting the Doctor out of her sight.

That’s that decided, then, at least for the next few hours. She feels Yaz lean into her, and rests her cheek against the top of Yaz’s head. They sit like that for a moment, until Yaz suddenly yawns and buries her face in her hands to stifle it. The Doctor returns to rubbing her hand against her back, until she stands, throwing the blanket against the couch, still a little unsteady.

The Doctor isn’t quite sure what to do – whether to follow Yaz, or to wait, stock-still on the couch, until she returns. She’s not given long to deliberate, though, as Yaz reaches for her hand and pulls her upright, drags her down the hallway to what turns out to be her bedroom.

Yaz closes the door, suddenly looking startled to be alone with the Doctor again. But she relaxes, letting their hands swing loosely between them, not letting go.

“I don’t know if you want to sleep or whatever, but just… just be here when I wake up?” There’s worry in her voice, and her fingers tighten against the Doctor’s.

“Of course.” And then the Doctor feels herself moving before she realises what she’s doing, as she brings Yaz’s hand close to her lips, and presses a soft, gentle kiss to the back of her hand, before letting herself be led across to the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sensorites are an alien that last appeared in a 1964 serial. [Here](http://tardis.wikia.com/wiki/Sensorite) is a visual guide if you were curious.
> 
> The line about mice refers to [To A Mouse](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_a_Mouse) by Robert Burns, a Scottish poet. The line in particular is: _The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft agley_ , or _The best-laid schemes of mice and men / Go often awry_. I don't know why that line in particular has stuck with me, but it has, and it seemed a fitting place to put it.


End file.
